


Blackout Nights and Tight Spaces

by whatthefoucault



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Brooklyn, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stucky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 19:52:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6767608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was cold, then sleep, but it was different this time.  He was dreaming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blackout Nights and Tight Spaces

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this shortly after seeing Captain America: Civil War for the first time (and bawling my eyes out through the credits). Takes place, as should be fairly obvious, after the mid-credits scene. Written while listening to [this beautiful song by Daughter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z-fD3PIRSO8) on repeat, which also gave the story its title.

It was cold, then sleep, but it was different this time. He was dreaming.

Sometimes he was aware of the dream, other times it seemed as though he was just being. Sometimes it was dark, voices muffled and indistinct, as though he were viewing the world through a veil of thick wool felt; other times, details were thrown into sharp relief, too loud, too bright, too fast - he would screw his eyes shut and scream as loud and long as he could to keep the sensory onslaught at bay, but the light bled through and he found himself mute.

Sometimes he felt still and silent, surrounded by nothing, as though all the universe but him had ceased to be: and for all he knew, maybe it had. Sometimes he thought he heard an almost infinitesimally slow whooshing, or the ringing whine of tinnitus, but whether it was real or imagined, he could not say. He noticed the weight of his shoulders and the points where the spine curved. Sometimes he felt the ghost of a familiar hand on his shoulder, or a pair of gentle arms curled around his waist, the breath of a voice leaving warm whispers in his ear. If he gave over all his concentration to it, he could just about wiggle the fingertips of his phantom limb.

He remembered things, things he thought were mostly true, even if some of the details became confused, replaced or misplaced, or simply missing. He remembered his first taste of ice cream and the day his sister was born, he remembered the way the sun glinted against the windows of the townhouses and the apartments in summer. He remembered the girls in pretty dresses he would ask to dance, and the boys who would hang out near the docks, blowing sailors in alleyways for pocket money, or just for the fun of it. He remembered Steve's tiny, pretty frame, too pretty for such a troublesome little punk, and he remembered extricating him from countless scraps, in spite of Steve’s protestations that this time, no really, he would have won. Such a fighty little shit, his Steve, too much for his own good. He remembered that one night in summer, when they reached out to each other somewhere between sleep and the morning, eager and nervous, messy and clumsy and so beautiful. He remembered telling himself it was just a bit of fooling around, and they never did talk about it in the morning, as much as he had wanted to. It was like seeing the world in colour for the first time.

He remembered the war, and the train, and what came after. Some of the details were mashed unceremoniously together, others strangely played out on a loop, skipping like broken records, jumping from one thing to another, and then back, especially the things he did not want to see. He felt every sting, the snap of bones breaking, metal matted with blood. He dreamed memories stained red.

Sometimes he woke up, but not really. Steve was there, or he wasn't, or the faces were all blurred, or he was alone and his arm had grown back and the whole building had shut down in ruin, and he was left to thaw and gasp for air amid the chaos and endless plumes of smoke and dust. Sometimes he woke up and Steve was there, eyes shining and so full of kindness, and he leaned in and pressed their lips together so softly, and everything was fine. Breakfast at the diner they liked best, that always did the softest scrambled eggs and fresh coffee. But that diner must have been closed for so long now, and he was dreaming.

Time had no more meaning; indeed, it may have been minutes, or decades. It made no difference. He was almost convinced he was waking into another dream when, at long last, that welcome face stared back at him in the too-bright light and whispered good morning. He was terrified, he had been terrified for so long, but it was time, and he would be ready.


End file.
